


Tunes That Tie Us Together

by alltheglitters



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheglitters/pseuds/alltheglitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you want a cup of tea? I - I can help... I can get one for you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tunes That Tie Us Together

vii.  
  
"Heeeello," a voice says. Though clipped in tone, George senses her worry in the way her tongue paradoxically holds onto the word. "Do you want a cup of tea? I - I can help... I can get one for you."  
  
George doesn't look up right away, just nods. After one minute (or two, or three, or... he loses count), she's sitting beside him.  
  
He grabs the cup and is careful to not tighten his grasp. There's so much fury, sadness pulsing through his veins that he's afraid of breaking the bloody paper instrument.  
  
It's one of the twins, he gathers, staring at the person standing in front of him patiently. Something in his chest burns at the word. Twins. His other half.. his other half no longer. He stops thinking, because it's all that he can manage and is now trying to get a better look of her face. He can't see her properly, everything is blurred. He blinks and then there's plenty of blue on her dusty uniform. It's the Ravenclaw one, the less giggly of the pair.  
  
"Padma," he pronounces. Then he plays with the name in his mouth. He doesn't know if she can hear him, because all _he_ hears are whispers and faint cries in the background and his sobbing mother's heaving shoulders. His muttering is nothing more than a quick, temporary remedy to suppress a lasting heartache. He doesn't smile - it feels too early, so today continues like yesterday. He sits here, his eyes downcast. He can't bare to see it again -  
  
The Great Hall. His pensieve - a fountain that gave birth to brilliant ideas for Weasleys Wizard Wheezes and had been the centre - the heart - of his entire time here. But now it'd serve as nothing more than a constant reminder of a madman's half-triumph (Volde - Voldemort... had destroyed their spirit, is there anything more to steal?); there is nothing here that doesn't prompt a silly, melodramatic prank that Fred suggested once upon a time.  
  
This stranger grazes his wrist with her long fingers and holds his hand in hers. And suddenly, it doesn't matter that the most he's ever said to her was a "Hello" at a DA meeting for her touch is warm and comforting.  
  
  
  
  
  
vi.  
  
He doesn't see her again until November when he bumps into her at a Ministry event (he makes the effort to not Owl her like he promised he would; all she sees in him are ghosts and he hates that). They are here to be declared war heroes, to be photographed by _The Daily Prophet_ once they're given badges with stupid, unnecessary titles and shiny medals he swears that his best mate would've poked fun at. Truth be told, George finds nothing heroic in celebrating deaths: though the Dark Side lost, he did not come out a winner on the other end either.  
  
As he steps off the red, gaudily decorated podium, she's gripping him by his collbecar. Leading him to the empty hallway. From the outside, he can still hear cheering and applause.  
  
Folding her arms, her brows are knitted. "George, have you slept?"  
  
"Merlin, who told you that?" he snaps. With only one question, he sounds like Ron - sarcastic and defensive when he doesn't need to be. Correcting himself, he knows that his mother taught them better manners than this.  
  
Did the war make him forget his etiquette too?  
  
"At all?" she asks, not even wincing.  
  
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I'm just... it's... I haven't slept properly in I don't know when and I'm exhausted and I don't - do _not_ \- want to be here! I - I don't remember doing anything. Anything in the war, I just - " When he trails off, she knows better than to question; he's all out of words to utter.  
  
She firmly instructs him that he needs to sleep. He follows her to the Atrium where a couch appears. Her lips are moving inaudibly (an incantation he's never learnt before; lessons with Flitwick had been his playground). Drowsiness begins to tug at his sleeves and through his chest, but before it dawns on him that a charm is at work, he's sound asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
v.  
  
Padma sits there, brushing his red hair aside. His temple is hot and it worries her that he didn't even realise that he was feverish.  
  
  
  
  
  
iv.  
  
She sends Molly messages everyday, asking her if Georgeisallright, ifGeorgeisgettingbetter and though she knows that she's foolish to expect more, she can't help but hope. After all, what is there left for her, for... them?  
  
In the following year, the Weasley matriarch finally answers yes.  
  
  
  
  
  
iii.  
  
Springtime: she's missed it and it feel as though she's waited for forever. When it arrives, she tells herself that she can't wish for things. Not too much or else she'll be disappointed.  
  
When the door opens, George Weasley is rushing into the cafe - twenty minutes late - and he brightens up at the sight of her and the corners of his mouth drift upwards.  
  
"I got lost, the university is huge." Sitting down across from her, he observes her pretty face. Pity he has never noticed how delicate her features are. He looks at her hand, she's stirring a purple drink. What is it exactly? Aside from her preferences in beverages, it strikes him that he does not know anything about her. He's never asked her about her life. Their exchanges have always revolved around her giving him tea and bread, especially during that dreadful week at school when the students, staff and parents gathered together in the Great Hall to clean up the remains and the skeleton of Hogwarts. "How are you?"  
  
She opens her mouth, shuts it with hesitation. Her head is tilted sideways. Her fingers are making an upward movement, drawing small ticks in the air as she tells him about a) her sister, who's giggling behind the counter (see? there she is), but cries at night thinking about flicks of green light, b) her parents' discussions, involving plans to uproot outside of Great Britain and c) herself? She's doing quite fine, thank you for your concern.  
  
Knowing that she saw her friends - her near family - murdered, he doesn't see any tears.  
  
Maybe she's the type of person who compartmentalizes, he thinks jealously. Maybe.  
  
They meet on a weekly basis, in different restaurants and coffee shops every Thursday afternoon.  
  
Padma believes that if everything in the world changes, they should follow suit. (His favourite location is by the seaside, because her laugh rivals that of the waves.) By the fourth month, she's sobbing. He listens in return, because nobody can bottle up that much inside and not share.  
  
It'll kill her, almost as it had done to him.  
  
  
  
  
  
ii.  
  
And of all the people who are meant to help him, she certainly isn't supposed to be his saviour. Then again, normality hasn't been his friend for his last five lifetimes.  
  
  
  
  
  
i.  
  
Every time George sees Padma, he greets her with a hug and a peck on her temple. When he accidentally plants his lips on hers during one summer, she frowns at how unapologetic he seems!  
  
She steps back at first. Staring at him with an indecipherable look. But soon, oh but not too soon, her hand is on his collar (she does this a lot); with her voice sharp as a needle, she leans forward and tells him, "Good, because I like you. Very much."  
  
He smirks at the fact that she doesn't say any fancy words (isn't her house famous for those?), merely this.  
  
But who's complaining? It's plenty enough to give you this fluttering sensation in your stomach and it's plenty enough to make him kiss her again.  
  
This time he feels her grin.


End file.
